


Stardust and Sunshine

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Speaking in Tongues [20]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes Feels, Sherlock's Past, Why Sherlock and not William
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 11:35:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10018670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: We finally find out what happened to trigger two huge changes to little Sherlock's life: his change of name, and his rejection of his big brother.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The earlier part of this conversation is in [Hello, Sweetie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9484622), Part 13 of this series, if you'd like the background.
> 
> Further explanation about Sherlock's nannies can be found in [A Smile Needs No Translation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9163936), Part 4 of this series.
> 
> The phrase, "a tiny speck of stardust" to describe a precious new baby comes from my new friend, describing her new niece. I thought it was just beautiful, and it fits perfectly here.
> 
> Dedicated to Grace, a tiny speck of stardust.

John sighed, his fingers absently massaging circles on Sherlock’s skull. They were half watching a documentary about honey badgers, at least John was; Sherlock appeared to be completely absorbed in the program.

“They don’t really eat bees, do they?” John asked, realising he’d missed a good portion of the show.

Sherlock frowned. “How did you miss that part, John?” He looked up from where his head was resting on John’s thigh.

John shrugged. His mind had been elsewhere for the last few days, since he and Sherlock had the conversation about-

“This is about the baby, isn’t it?” Sherlock interrupted, right as usual.

“Yeah,” John admitted. It had been on his mind constantly, and he couldn’t seem to shake it.

“Have you changed your mind, love?” Sherlock asked quietly.

John smiled faintly at the endearment. Sherlock had been so adamantly against endearments, but John’s use of the term had rubbed off on him, and in the last few months it had become more frequent. He loved it, though it was never mentioned in conversation.

“No, I just…” he trailed off, unsure how to express himself.

“You have concerns about the child’s upbringing," Sherlock stated, hitting the mark as usual.

‘It’s not that I think there won’t be a loving home, but given the whole history, plus the social stigma that still faces a same sex couple…” John went on, his face flaming. He was embarrassed to admit his fears, a little worried that Sherlock would be offended. He wasn’t however; the blue eyes had turned away from the television and were now fixed on his face.

“John,” Sherlock said seriously, “If you really thought Harry and Clara would be a danger to their child, you’d do something, right?”

John nodded immediately.

“Are you really worried? I mean, I know Harry doesn’t have the best track record, but she’s committed to staying sober while Clara’s pregnant, and she’s six months this week, if I recall correctly.”

John sighed. “It feels so disloyal, but babies aren’t easy, and Harry’s never done well under pressure. Even with Clara, and mum…”

It was Sherlock’s turn to nod. He then said rationally, “Clara will be with her, supporting her, and they have a great network around them, including your mum. While Harry doesn’t do well under pressure, she’s also never had such a supportive partner, or such a solid group of people around her. Plus, she’s been very open with them, they know her history.”

John was listening to Sherlock, and intellectually he understood, but the lingering doubts remained, along with a sadness he couldn’t really explain. His fingers continued to work as his mind turned things over.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?” Sherlock asked.

John looked away and didn’t reply.

Sherlock sat up, facing John as they each turned to rest against an arm of the sofa.

“I guess I’d always imagined that I’d have children someday. Not that we couldn’t, if we wanted to, but,” John shrugged self-consciously, “it wouldn’t really fit in with our life, would it?” He looked down at his hands as he added quietly, “and I don’t even know if I want children now. It always seemed like the life plan, you know? Meet a girl, get married, have kids. My mum would have loved me to have kids.” Avoiding Sherlock’s eyes still, John’s field of vision was obscured by another hand, this one pale with long fingers. Sherlock’s hand was covering his own, the gentle pressure a reassuring sensation.

“Your life isn’t going as you planned,” Sherlock said quietly. “But Harry’s is. It’s natural that you’d feel a little uncomfortable with that.”

John wasn’t sure that ‘uncomfortable’ really encompassed his emotions right now, but he appreciated Sherlock’s attempted empathy.

“If we were to have a child,” Sherlock asked suddenly, “what do you think they’d be like?”

John looked at him a little suspiciously. Sherlock was not one to indulge in ‘what if?’. His question seemed genuine, though, and John decided he was trying to draw him out, distract him from his negative thoughts.

“Physically, I suppose it would depend on where they came from,” John said, smiling at the thought of a pale, curly haired child running through the sitting room.

“How old would they have to be before you could teach them to shoot?” Sherlock wondered aloud.

John cocked his head and rolled his eyes, Sherlock’s deep chuckle confirming his teasing.

“You could teach them about deduction.” John pointed out. “They’d probably even listen to you talk about all those kinds of tobacco ash and stuff.” He grinned, and Sherlock smirked back, though there was a light in his eyes. The idea of a tiny captivated audience was clearly just occurring to Sherlock.

They talked for a while, John’s mood lifting as they talked and gently teased each other.

“No, I’d be Daddy, you’d be Papa,” John insisted.

“It’s pronounced _Pa-PA,_ ” Sherlock objected, stressing the French pronunciation. John rolled his eyes.

“And that’s why I’ll be in charge of foreign languages, John," Sherlock said. A thought occurred to him, and he pointed one finger as he added sternly, “No swearing in any languages, John. Even if you do teach him to shoot.”

“Him?” John asked, and Sherlock shrugged.

“There will be a name, of course.”

John nodded, eyes thoughtful as he cast his mind back to another conversation they had had about names, on this very sofa.

“Sherlock,” he began, his tone indicating a shift in conversation, “will you tell me why you are so adamant about being called Sherlock, and not a variation of William?”

Sherlock stilled, his eyes on John. His mind was working fast, John could tell. After a long silence, he nodded a little.

John waited, knowing he would want to organise his thoughts before he spoke.

“Mycroft used to read to me as a child,” he began. “Charlotte’s Web was my favourite, do you know it?”

John nodded, not wanting to speak and break the rhythm.

“I loved that story, and Mycroft would read it to me every night. I never opened it myself, it was always something we shared. I cherished that time with him. It was consistent even when other things were changing.” Sherlock stopped, lost in his mind palace, surrounded by nannies new and old.

John gently squeezed his fingers, bringing him back, and he continued. “When he was thirteen, he went away, as you know. The first night, I took Charlotte’s Web and read it to myself for the first time. I never knew he changed the story.” Sherlock took a deep shuddering breath, then continued. “He always said that Charlotte came back to the farm with Wilbur and they lived happily ever after. I was not naïve enough to believe in happily ever after in a literal sense, of course, but I understood the storytelling device. When I realised that Charlotte never comes back from the fair, that she _dies_ …”

He sounded distraught, though his eyes were dry, and John was gripping his hand tightly. “I was inconsolable. I took the book and I burned it to ashes. The next day, I decided that the small boy who was sometimes known as Wilbur was gone.” He shrugged, as though it was nothing, but John saw through the façade.

“Why Sherlock?” he asked. Now Sherlock was telling the story, John didn’t want to let the question go unasked.

Sherlock sighed. “Although I hated Mycroft, I missed him terribly. I had always admired his name, it was so grown up and unique. ‘Scott’ is neither of those things, so Sherlock it was.”

“Do you think your brother ever knew?” John asked, wondering at the damage done so unwittingly to such a small boy. The kindness of the elder brother had twisted back and driven them so far apart. Even now, though, Mycroft sought to protect his brother, despite their enmity, which, John realised, might stem from something Mycroft didn’t even fully understand.

Sherlock was shaking his head. “I never told him,” he whispered. A single tear dropped on his trousers, and John drew him close, murmuring soothing words as he struggled to contain his emotion. After a long time, Sherlock sat up, hand still in John’s, eyes red.

“Some things are too long gone to say.” Sherlock said quietly. There was regret in his voice, regret and resignation.

John sighed. The relationship between the brothers was complex, and this was not the only thing between them that had fuelled their animosity over the years. Surely, though, a small overture from one brother would begin the process? He knew it would be a long, slow journey, fraught with misunderstandings and fragility, but John was determined to help guide both brothers towards a better understanding. He also suspected, as Sherlock would have considered before he spoke, that Mycroft could have bugged their flat. In that case, Mycroft would then certainly hear the story, and the emotion it triggered in his brother. It was entirely possible that this would be enough to start them down the path towards a less antagonistic relationship. Time would tell, he suspected.

“Sherlock,” John said, as they rearranged themselves to cuddle on the couch. The detective hummed in response, snuggling down in John’s arms. They drifted quietly for a moment, before Sherlock said sleepily, “Were you going to say something, John?”

“Mmmm….yeah. My mum will call the baby a little ray of sunshine. She’ll love it.”

Sherlock was quiet, and John wondered if was asleep. Then he shifted, murmuring, “A tiny speck of stardust.”

“What?”

Sherlock stirred. “That’s what my mother said I was when I was born. Harry’s baby will be our tiny speck of stardust.”

John smiled sleepily, drifting off and dreaming of stardust and sunshine and Sherlock.


End file.
